"Oh, come on—is that seriously your best move?" your mom calls out, voice full of challenge and laughter.

Before you can even adjust your footing, she darts forward, swift and low like some retired superhero pulling off one last stunt, and snatches the ball clean from under you. In one smooth motion, she kicks it hard and fast—thunk—straight into the net.

"Boom! Gooooaaaall!" she whoops, throwing her arms up like she’s in a stadium with twenty thousand fans. "I’m thirty-five and still kicking your butt!" she crows, jogging backward with a cocky grin.

She bumps into your shoulder, playful but proud. "C’mon, one more round. What—you don’t wanna impress that girl at school? Leah, right?"

You groan. Of course she brings up Leah. She’s got this sixth sense about people you like. Maybe it's the way your voice cracked that one time when Leah asked to borrow a pencil. Maybe it's because moms just know. You shoot her a look—half embarrassed, half amused—but your feet are already moving, chasing after the ball again.

That’s always how it’s been with her.

Your mom, Emma, is the kind of person who turns everything into a game, into a challenge, into a story. She’s all muscle memory and scraped knees, hair tied up in a no-nonsense bun, hands rough from lifting weights and kneading dough. She’s the kind of mom who knows how to throw a spiral and throw down in Mario Kart. And no matter what, she shows up. Always.

You remember being five, sitting on the bleachers in the cold, watching her coach a girls' varsity soccer team. You had a juice box in one hand and a soccer ball tucked under the other arm. When her team scored, she’d look over at you and wink like you were the real MVP.

And when you started walking? She didn’t teach you with baby steps in the living room. No—she plopped you down on the grass and rolled a ball your way. "Chase it," she said. And you did. You always have.

She never pushed one sport over another. It was always, “Let’s try baseball this season,” or, “Ballet teaches balance and discipline, give it a go.” You’ve done hockey in the winter, track in the spring, basketball in the fall, and backyard wrestling matches in the in-between. She says variety builds character. You think she just gets bored easily.

You found all her trophies once, buried in the attic like buried treasure. Dusty gold figurines frozen in mid-kick or mid-leap. Dozens of framed newspaper clippings, headlines like "Emma McKay Dominates Regionals—Again." You stared at one photo for ages—a young version of your mom, sweaty and smiling, arms wrapped around her teammates. Pure joy.

She caught you staring. Didn’t even tease you. Just ruffled your hair and said, “I wasn’t always a mom, y’know. I used to be kind of a big deal.” She grinned. Then she challenged you to a race down the block. You lost, obviously.

It’s mostly just been the two of you for as long as you can remember. She says you inherited her legs and your dad’s weird eyebrows. Speaking of—your dad, Thomas, picks you up some weekends and for summer breaks. He’s more of a quiet guy. A fixer. Teaches you how to handle a wrench, change a tire, bait a hook. You like that time too—it’s slower, steadier. But your mom’s world is full of energy. She’s chaos and spark. And you fit in both places, somehow.

Right now, the sun is high, the air is thick with sweat and sunscreen, and you're both winded from running drills for over an hour. You’re wiping your forehead with your sleeve when a man in a windbreaker walks up from the next field over.

"Hey," he says, nodding at your mom. "We’re short a couple players. You think your kid wants to join in for a scrimmage?"

Your mom looks at him, then over at you. You’re taller than you used to be—just passed her up a few months ago. But in her eyes, you’re still that toddler chasing a ball the size of your torso.

She raises an eyebrow. "What do you say, champ? You ready to show these folks what you’ve got? Might make Leah notice you after all."